


Endeavor and Establishment

by Nice_Valkyrie



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Censorship, First Meetings, Gen, Libraries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-04 09:16:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17301938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nice_Valkyrie/pseuds/Nice_Valkyrie
Summary: Vato Falman works through a holiday, and learns a thing or two.





	Endeavor and Establishment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [That_Hoopy_Frood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/That_Hoopy_Frood/gifts).



> For my friend Hoopy, who loves Team Mustang.
> 
> A huge thank-you to the editing squad at [Writer's Block Workshop](https://writersblockwrkshop.tumblr.com/) for all their help with this.

In 1909, a few months after the extermination ceased and soldiers began shipping home, Führer Bradley declared the official end of the Ishval Civil War. Anniversary celebrations for the founding of Amestris a few weeks later were particularly grand. People lined the streets starting in the gray hours of the morning, jostling to procure the best view for the parade. Falman saw them as he hurried to arrive at Central Command’s archives by six o’clock, where they needed him to sort the newest batch of acquisitions. The work of accumulation, he supposed, was never finished.

The archive ceiling arched like a cathedral. Midway through the morning, another officer stopped by to hand Falman a cup of coffee, but after that he passed the hours alone in the silent chamber. He was grateful to be indoors: the celebration flowers adorning every window and person meant he would be sneezing well into his sleep.

But even the thick archive walls couldn’t entirely block out the parade. Falman knew when Führer Bradley and his family appeared in the leading car, because a great roar went up, one that seemed to rush through the room and disturb the slumbering documents. The steady drum of marching feet hammered on and on. After the parade were the final military maneuvers; and then, he knew, would come the headache of—

“Officer Falman.”

Falman looked up and noted with some surprise that the daylight was already fading into sunset orange. He saluted Lieutenant Forester, who slid a piece of paper across the front desk at him.

“Major Mustang wants this book brought to his office. You know where that is?”

Forester meant _Lieutenant Colonel_ , of course, as Mustang’s promising career had received another boost with a promotion just the day before. Falman itched to correct the mistake, but he only nodded. “Yes, sir.” 

Forester retreated, and as Falman read the printed title, he felt a little clench of dismay.  _T_ _he Spirit of Amestris_. Well, it was certainly the kind of treatise he would expect someone skyrocketing through military ranks as rapidly as Roy Mustang to read.

As he rose to his feet, the _boom_ of a single cannon reverberated through the stillness of the archives. Then the fireworks show began. Whistling, snapping, crackling bursts—the noise was steady, and followed Falman as he made his way through the stacks, an uncomfortable accompaniment to his soft footsteps. His head already hurt.

In Falman’s earliest Foundation Day memories there were no fireworks, only a procession to the memorial in the center of town and a handout of candy. When fireworks did arrive, they were an off yellow-green like bile. The correct pigmentation for Amestrian green starbursts had been difficult to develop. Fireworks originated in Xing, and had only crossed to Amestris a century ago. Even then the colors remained weak and inconsistent. The discoveries that led to improvement were only made after Amestris increased its interest in Ishval. 

And in any case, Falman deemed it rather futile to stage a fireworks show before nightfall. Wasteful.

He turned down the aisle and found the shelf that held _The Spirit of Amestris_. The book was heavy and well-worn, its cover that same green, and Falman considered flipping it open. At times like this it was better to escape into a physical volume, even this familiar, tedious propaganda. The solid touch of paper and ink was soothing in a way that simply recalling the words in his head couldn’t replicate.

Falman’s gaze returned to the shelf. There was an empty space beside the one he had just created. He pulled the title that belonged there from his memory of the accession list: _Spirit and Service_.

Now the headache was accompanied by a sinking feeling somewhere around his midsection. When he returned to the front desk and retrieved the list, the missing book’s entry had a neat black line through it. Another text of potentially incendiary material purged. No one had informed him.

Outside, the fireworks continued.

Feeling noticeably more tired, Falman checked the book out for Mustang and hurried off. Mustang’s office was nearly across the building, and up a floor. Falman was breathing harder by the time he arrived. He turned the corner, only to find the door open, and Mustang standing just inside, shrugging out of his coat.

“Oh,” said Falman, saluting hastily. “Lieutenant Colonel, sir! And might I add, congratulations on your promotion.”

Mustang hung his coat on the rack. “Thank you...”

“Warrant Officer Vato Falman, sir.”

“Falman.” Mustang’s voice was quiet. There were deep purple circles beneath his eyes. Then: “Ah, you’re the archivist.”

“Yes. I was told to retrieve a book for you, sir.” Falman held it out.

“I hoped nobody would notice if I skipped this part of the celebrations, but you’re very prompt.” Mustang took the book from Falman’s hands. “ _The Spirit of Amestris_. Just what I was looking for.”

“It’s an appropriate choice. A very patriotic text, sir.”

“Really?” Mustang’s weary expression didn’t change, but there was an odd tone to his voice, something almost amused. “That’s how you’d describe it?”

Falman shifted on his feet. “That’s how it’s listed in the catalog, sir.”

“I see.”

Falman hesitated, wondering if that was Mustang’s version of a dismissal. The young lieutenant colonel was known as something of an upstart, even if they now called him the Hero of Ishval to his face. But as Falman waited for clarification, Mustang sighed to himself, low and tired, and Falman suddenly perceived in him the same quality he had many times observed in himself: that of being too old for his body, a feeling which did not lessen even as he aged.

“I hear you have a prodigious memory,” said Mustang at last.

“That’s true, sir. That’s why they put me in the archives.”

“You remember everything that’s in there?”

“I’m still working my way through. It’s a lot of information, sir.” Falman swallowed. “But I can tell you where everything is shelved.”

“Amazing,” said Mustang. “You must be some kind of genius.”

Falman smiled apologetically. “It only means I always have to find a new book to read, sir.”

Mustang opened a drawer in his desk. As he slipped _The Spirit of Amestris_ inside, Falman caught a glimpse of a slim gray book. The title was hidden, but he knew it would be lettered in silver: _Spirit and Service_.

“Um—”

“Thank you,” said Mustang. “You’re dismissed.”

Falman took an automatic step toward the door before he he felt himself stilling. The leather of his boot pressed against his toes, and he was all too aware of the scratchy embrace of his uniform collar about his neck; and inside him there was a fizzing, like a fuse had been lit within his heart.

He turned on his heel.

“Personally, sir, I find it rather dull.”

Mustang looked up. “Oh?”

“ _The Spirit of Amestris_ , sir,” said Falman. “Its arguments aren’t compelling or thought-provoking. It doesn’t encourage rumination or rebuttal. Although I suppose that was the intention.”

Mustang’s dark eyes had seemed flat before, but now they had a piercing keenness that made it difficult to hold the stare. “That’s an interesting assessment, Officer Falman. I’ll be sure to come to you again the next time I’m wanting for reading material.”

As Falman started back down the hall, the opening strains of the Amestrian anthem reached his ears, and he decided his headache was not so bad after all. The last portion of the display was beginning: single fireworks shot off in succession, one for each birthday Führer Bradley had celebrated. The sequence grew longer each year, but Falman knew the number. With that in mind, he could endure until it was over.

 


End file.
